God gave me too much of me
And some of me too little
That to live must be —
That to live must be reduced
To something less
A lesser someone
Or in fullness being —
A being forever bounding
To where the lesser could never reach
Or reach immensely slower.
God gave me too much of me
So I longed to pass as Elijah did
In my chariot of fire
Lacquered black and finely barred,
Run on one-way furnace rails.
When tint of duskfall weaves through a cloud
I spill lacquered paint on bays, ashore
my gold-red shades draping sand. Endowed
with citrine flame of sky , I soar:
Call me ambrosia too. Just outside,
nectar drips from marmalade nights
honey and cantaloupe bless my glide--
O I'm there...when slice of dawn alights !
she sits at the bar near chamberlain high school,
her nails chewed to nothing,
a lipstick smear on the rim of her glass.
the men orbit her like moths,
drawn to her heat,
but she keeps her eyes on the jukebox,
fingers twitching against
the lacquered wood.
there’s something inside her—
a scream buried too deep
or a wound sewn too tight.
she scratches at the edges,
but it won’t bleed,
won’t break.
just festers.
the bartender pours her another,
and she drinks it fast,
chasing a man she’ll never catch.
A frothy crown, pale as the whites
Of eyes widened with fascination,
Perched on a robust body, deep as molasses.
Brooding; concealing a warm rapport.
But still so condescending, its stout posture
Condenses air to beads of sweat.
Invited, parched lips kiss the cold glass
Rewarded with familiar comfort -
A bitter burst, sharp and clean,
Fading into toffee warmth,
Hints of roasted coffee and chocolate bloom,
All linger, like a whispered secret.
The golden harp strums cheerful notes
In harmony with taps, clinks, and murmured oaths
Cheers dance over lacquered walls, awash with glee
As gulps of crisp bitters and molten sweets
Cascade, watering dry cracks in weary bones.
A tonic for the soul, it lifts the load -
Worries dissolve, fading like bubbles on the lip.
It washes away the settling dust,
Soothes the mind into peaceful currents,
Sinking burdens to its murky depths
As spirits rise to play in the air of its frothy crown.
The Monster is massive
with fangs and with claws
all lacquered and sharpened
sticking out from its jaws
The Monster is ghoulish
with deep, sunken eyes
it speaks whispers of wicked
and paranoid lies
The Monster is cruel
it sneers and it spits
always waiting for something
to tear into bits
The Monster is hidden
from inside its dark lair
just plotting and pacing
in the dank, musky air
The Monster is mournful
it wails and it weeps
for its heart has been broken
but the pieces it keeps
You know of the Monster
you've heard the tall tales
and despite what they say
no terror prevails
The Monster is cared for
and treated with grace
because the Monster writes poetry
from behind a fair face.
In lacquered boxes, six feet down,
Rest whispers of the unbought crown -
The paintings left in mental drafts,
The kindness stored away in crafts.
Between the satin folds they place
The morning walks at slower pace,
The letters crumpled, never sent,
The wild dreams left unbent.
A coffee-stained rejection slip,
The novel's pages, torn and ripped,
Three cigarettes crushed in despair
When winter stripped our cupboards bare.
The day we sold mom's silver spoons,
To pay for pills that came too soon,
While mice made nests of unpaid bills
Behind the walls of windowsills.
These fragments sealed in knotted pine:
Dead houseplants, dried in '99,
A pawnshop ticket, never claimed -
Now feed the earth we never tamed.
-
This is the tale of young Polkahontus.
She lives in the forest; her aim is to taunt us.
The squeezebox is ancient; it’s lacquered and red;
she communes with the spirits and plays for the dead.
She gives the accordion a little squeeze;
the raspy sound out of it’s more like a wheeze.
She dances and prances and plays in the wood;
I’d drop a tree on her if I only could.
At dusk she gets started down there in the vale;
I’ve fingered my crossbow with thoughts to impale.
In the rain, in the snow, even bitter and cold,
she’s playing that polka; Good Lord, it gets old.
I’m at my wit’s end, so I get down the rifle
with murderous thoughts of a squeezebox to stifle.
I aim through my scope with the polka red dot,
but I won’t pull the trigger, ‘cuz that polka girl’s hot!
Imagination nude
liquored and lacquered lips
ember-breathing phoenix
..lighter fluid magic
when let loose near a flame..
combustible thigh-highs
when moonshine-high is nigh—
the moon she bathes in dreams
I have you both in hand
my tongue slick and sleek seeks
to taste the fruits of fields
intoxicated snake
oh! my lust a slither
a quiver serpentine
squeeze innocence with sins
revive the withered vine
anthurium’s shield leaf
your phallic sword unsheathed
exotic frolic fire
in heart-shaped bloom I burn
fire-water-pulse untamed
grabbed by the mane restrained
—unrestrained dreams unleashed
tequila genie free
sassy-frassy lassie
a parasol in pink
frilly and unfolded
beholder beholden
to climb aboard and fly
feminine flamingo
through shaken sky uncorked—
liquid-libido rains
as thirst and thunder reigns
just drop the reins and ride
bridal sweet bridle free
yah barefoot and bareback
yes! drain the bottle dry
free way ticket three way
trifecta perfecta
primal energies spoon
la belle ‘Bianca’ blanc—
wine-skinned mademoiselle
I am as an infant
Reaching
For the stars
Above my crib
Fascinated so
By shiny
A piece
Of metal scraps
And lacquered wood
Hanging
By silver threads
On the lattice
Of the skies.
Paris was built gray, though in summer,
the trees and the umbrellas upload color.
The architecture spills over
into gay shades of silver and pewter.
Edinburgh is gray, gray are the plastic rainhats.
Damp kilts gamely fly a little color.
The stonework is granite gained,
and in late arriving Spring
color creeps up the hilly streets.
Shanghai flakes away in gray
a lacquered gray
that gilts the Huangpu river.
The skyscrapers are creamy
and blush in the sunlight.
The girls are silk flowers
in gray designer Nike’s.
Nowadays,
those who world-travel no more,
and those stuck in their own mud,
spin a grey alchemy into colorful words
which they then send
to places
worth writing to.
after Dilly Dally
She bought a button
to be pinned on vintage dresses
to be placed back on the lacquered shelf
after another day at the gallery:
getting lost in brushstrokes
of light and shadow,
transported like an Echo
reverberating on gilded frames
It's been sixty years
and the vintage dress has been
dry cleaned and packed away
The button lost to time,
yet small circular visions bounce
back into my head
like Echoes
She studies the scattered tea-leaves
“She will love you forever,”
she says,
one red lacquered nail
circling the rim of the tea cup.
A long pause, then…
“alas, you shall never meet her.”
Lemon sour thoughts in aquamarine
imagery of dry desire pure pale powdered sage
quaint quear copulate of Cupids
with bows that draw Archaic archer
arrows aimed at the blackest of hearts
drum bitter black regrets into souls depths
dark deeds, something rages rare raw
Crimson liquor that lingers on the floor
in lavish lacquered halls, intricate doors
weathered by thunderstorms lashing the walls
where once elegant lush balls drive men, women twirling, dancing till dawn
Are in full burn, blares bright until the wee artificial hours of midnight
of wet tropical rains, hurricanes
gain power and destruction
by morn born falling silver rain
in the light of a pure pale Moon, wax, and wane
Clouds receded fade away
transfix by orbs of Odin Odd Omnipotent eye
full and alive burning bright
in cold cobalt midnights a wash all
in the fallacies of youth
the breath of God’s are ghosts in ruins
the cascade of the insane
Our sour lemon thoughts and aquamarine dreams
Are oblique obsolete imagery fading in fleeting lives
*Image of Flower Purple Orchids by Pixabay.
Dream Makers
fresh
half-castes
tranced set eyes
moored wild sparkles
smooched perianths hues
moon chant ripen charm bud
purplish-lacquered functions
claimed space far and few
*cheat death to thrive
warm broad spots
mauve blooms
dense
*Epiphyte: Plants that grow on another plant but are not parasitic.
2021 August 12
Dawn was bearing the load again for her siblings.
Quivering puppies who feared the shuttered house.
Her occupant was terrifying to them,
they did not understand the sense of this endeavor.
They are young, she told herself, meaning immature.
A swallow stopped to watch her lift the lacquered tiles.
Pretty soon we’ll have a parade, she muttered.
But two robins and a cardinal later made her smile.
She was lavishing generous coats of stain on the steps now.
“Do you think you have enough stain?” a voice asked.
She looked up to see a young man who made her swallow.
He was noticing the paint adorning her cheek, recognizing beauty.
It suddenly dawned on her that she was a woman,
Rounded in the right places, and ripe for courtship.
Suddenly she was grateful her siblings were in hiding.
This was the work of a woman now; let the enticing begin.
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